


Episode 15: The Mountain

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Clan Meso'a [15]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clan Meso'a, F/M, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Secrets, maternal energy, warrior couples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 13:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: [REDACTED][REDACTED]





	Episode 15: The Mountain

“See you at the festival, ori’vod,” the man on the holo lifted his chin to her and cut the transmission.   
Koucitesh leaned against the console and sighed; a few strands too short to reach her ponytail fell across her forehead. It was nearing nightfall, but the late afternoon heat still bore down on the stone building effectively turning it into an oven. Now that her official duties were met for the day, she could pull off the furs at least. Maybe all but her leg armor? That sounds real nice, she thought as she stretched and wiped away the beads of sweat trickling down her temples. A twitched rocked her body and she felt the hair stand on the back of her neck.   
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.   
Ba’atuk got up from the wall and approached slowly, almost like a predator assessing her prey. No one knew exactly when luminous yellow eyes appeared in her family. Maybe Ba’atuk was just different that way. In the dimly lit council room, her eyes were almost ominous. Koucitesh glanced back at her, noting she wasn’t wearing the warriors’ furs. Her jumpsuit was exposed and she lacked a breastplate. She still wore the shin guards, clawed shoes, and skirt, but other than that a spiked pauldron on her left shoulder was her only piece of armor. The jade comb in her hair was as tightly secured as always. For a moment the alor envied her, but a visit from the Choxultz’alor was never on a whim. 

Kore and Kuntz knelt at the base of the stairs and watched the worn doorway, listening to the shuffling on the other side. Kuntz shifted, holding both his staff and Ba'atuk’s. Kore toggled her helmet com.   
“Why visit her? The trials aren’t for another month,” she whispered even though they were the only ones on the channel.   
Kuntz shrugged, “I didn’t take this position to ask questions.”  
“But-”  
“Hush, cyare,” his gaze shot back to the door at the faint sound of footsteps.

“You remind me of your mother,” Koucitesh mused, standing up straight and resting her hands on her hips.   
Ba’atuk’s steely gaze betrayed nothing other than that she wasn’t there for idle chatter.   
“I assume you’re here to report on my warriors?”  
Ba’atuk nodded and cleared her throat:  
“Less than I expected, but they’ve done well in training.”   
“And Tavut?”  
“Undecided. He still hasn’t come to me for instruction.”  
“He still goes to the mountain?”  
The warrior nodded.   
Koucitesh glanced around the room. Warriors sat around tables in conversation, a few were engrossed in data feeds on the many computers set about the room.   
“Does he know?”  
She shook her head, “Tavut is trustworthy. He goes to make sure all is well.”  
Koucitesh leaned back against the console and let her shoulders relax.   
“This plan..heh..I think it’s aging me faster than I’d like,” she chuckled dryly, eyes distant, “I just hope Aviila knows what she’s doing.”  
Ba’atuk put a hand on her shoulder, her yellow eyes steadfast, “Trust her as I am trusting you.” 

“I can’t help it,” came Kore’s even softer reply, “If the mountain falls-”  
“It won’t,” Kuntz glanced over at her, “Fa’ssra’na. Trust her.”  
“Ta’fa’ssra’na,” she shot back, “I trust you. I trust her. I’m just…” she paused, trying to put her words together. 

The older woman nodded and lifted her chin. Ba’atuk returned the gesture before letting go and moving to leave, but Koucitesh put a hand out to stop her.   
“Dedel-”  
“Grows wary,” Ba’atuk quickly interrupted her as a warrior rushed by, “But he has agreed to keep his..opinions to himself.”  
“As an Alor, or as your father?”  
The Zabrak didn’t reply. She clenched her jaw and kept her gaze forward, letting Koucitesh know it was probably time to drop the conversation. She lowered her arm; Ba’atuk took a few steps forward, then stopped.   
“Should this fail, I will take his side.”  
Koucitesh crossed her arms and studied her companion. Ba’atuk turned back to her, eyes now ablaze as if her skull was on fire.   
“You gave up your tribe becoming Choxultz’alor,” she bristled, “Your concern is-”  
“The warriors. Every warrior,” Ba’atuk snarled, “And you’ve put too much on him.”  
“That isn’t your concern-”  
“It is when you insist on leaving him close to my home-tribe,” she jabbed a finger into Koucitesh’s breastplate, “I may not be an alor like you or Dedel, but as the highest authority on our warriors, should he fail, should he snap,” she came closer, so close their noses almost touched, “I will come for you,” she hissed.   
“I thought you just told me to trust?” Koucitesh replied, undaunted.   
“Yes, trust, as in don’t interfere,” the warrior pulled back, still glaring at the alor.   
Koucitesh narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Ba’atuk wheeled around and left, the rough clicking of her claws down the hallway grating on the Koucitesh’c nerves. She clenched her fists. Normally she’d dispose of anyone who spoke to her like that, but Ba’atuk… she sighed. Of all people, of all her siblings, why did she have to become Choxultz’alor?   
“Issss everythhhing ahlriiiight?” hissed a Trandoshan, tentatively approaching her with a box of datapads under one arm.   
She nodded and rubbed the inner corners of her eyes with her thumb and index finger. 

Wind wound around the exposed columns dotting the courtyard, rustling the leaves of the bushes and small fruit trees. The furs rippled against their shoulders; their dark brown capes caught the breeze and flapped idly behind them. Kore shifted, trying to restore feeling back to her foot.   
“I can hear the mountain, cyare,” she turned to him, “I know you hear it too.”  
Kutz looked over at her. He wanted to reach out and touch her arm, but he stayed where he was. He had to.   
“The mountain will hold,” he tapped the ground with the butt of his spear, “I trust her. I trust them both. Be Haria Enad,” he said, encouragingly.   
“Be Haria Enad,” she echoed, although not entirely convinced, snapping herself to attention the moment the doors parted.  
Ba’atuk walked out into the shadowy courtyard, eyes falling on her warriors at the base of the stairs flanked by the patron animal of the plains’ tribe: the tusked hog-hound Chochoma. She stared down into their painted white eyes, daring them to judge her for her words inside. Ignoring them, she descended the stairs. At her approach, Kore and Kuntz lifted their chins but remained knelt before her. Kutz offered her the spear; she accepted it and walked past without saying a word.   
“If the mountain falls,” Kore whispered again.   
Kutz lingered for a moment, a creeping doubt bubbling up in his throat. Slowly he got up, helped Kore to her feet, and the pair jogged after Ba’atuk.


End file.
